


La Fragile

by clicktrack_heart



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU French Revolution, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:04:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1793 in France and Bethany LeGreene, a young noble woman, is hiding in the country with her father’s servants, Otis and Patrice, and using a nom de plume to support the revolutionary cause with both her writing and inheritance. Everything is going fine as it can... until some men come to claim what is hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quickly, apologize for the many historical inaccuracies or any grammatical errors, I don’t have a beta. Let me know if you want the job and hopefully this is enjoyed anyway! The next two parts are already written, if people like this I’ll keep it going and posting quickly... Song for this whole work and title is "The Fragile" by Nine Inch Nails (such a perfect Bethyl song).

September 1, 1793

 

Daryl Dixonne was living in a nightmare. 

What had started as journey for freedom had begun a long descent into terror and hell. 

He stared out the carriage windows, watching the bland countryside pass by, the rolling hills, the spindly trees. He chewed on his blunt fingernail realizing it all meant nothing. His journey had all began to blur together, completely meaningless. 

He watched the farmers toiled outside, the sun beating down as they cut the first emerging stalks of wheat. The harvest had come too late.

And what did it matter?

These men didn’t yet know the terror that was beginning to spread in Paris like a deadly plague. They had not seen other men lose their minds to it--yet. 

Daryl, and Len, his companion, if he could be called that, had for three days and two nights traveled to the countryside of Grenelle, a small village on the other side of the River Seine. It did feel as if they were fleeing the horrors of the city though Len didn’t see it that way.

The horror of the 10 of August, and what the armed militias had done, still sent a cold shiver down Daryl’s spine. The fires, the looting, the chaos. He had thought Paris would fall but it had survived another day, the blood drying on cobbled streets like careless spills of red paint. Daryl felt something ugly rise up whenever Len talked about those days as if referring to a night at a whore house. 

For him, there was no pleasure in what he had done to survive. And he had had to fight, with his bow and arrows, with his fists and teeth, just to escape the chaos. 

Even now with a “job,” Daryl’s own threadbare clothes had grown loose around him, his muscles sharp and hard. Even when he had food, eating it was an effort. He ate for his strength, and that was it. He had no one and nothing to care for.

In his time in Paris, Daryl had seen many bloodbaths. He had seen innocent people die. It had all begun a year ago, when peasants and revolutionaries had stormed the Tuilleries Palace, killing the guard and, two days later, capturing the king. 

Now Louis was dead. Now there were wooden carts filled with prisoners, shoved through cobbled streets and angry mobs. The crammed carts only had one endpoint, what the revolutionary Parisians lovingly called “The National Razor.” 

When more than 97 percent of their wages had been spent for stale bread for their families, Daryl understood the revolution itself. 

And he had as much cause to hate he nobles as anyone. Thick, shiny scars braided his back all the way down to his ass for two petty crimes he committed as a child, for attempting to steal a loaf of bread and another time, a bundle of shiny, red apples. 

The latter attempted theft had led to one of the worst moments of Daryl’s life, a public whipping that lasted for four hours. A squad of royal police officials had been passing through the market when a rich merchant had caught him with the stolen fruit. The fat, balding man had grabbed Daryl by the hair while he ripped an apple out of his fraying pants and screamed “Thief!” The officials, hearing the commotion from the merchant, decided to make an example of the poor peasant boy who had the audacity to snarl back at the merchant. They wanted to make sure Daryl never forgot his place in French society. 

In a strange way, the vicious whipping had been a turning point. Daryl was no stranger to beatings, even as a small boy. Still, he had been different when he was younger, foolish in thinking that if someone knew what was happening to them, if he was ever brave to tell someone, they would help. 

Daryl supposed he could thank the nobles for beating that foolish notion out of him. 

Twenty-six years ago, when he saw the dozens of laughing nobles that surrounded the town square, witnessing the spectacle of his punishment, Daryl saw only faces of contempt, clear and undisguised by powdered wigs or rouged cheeks. 

At 10 years of age, Daryl felt his hope die.

He no longer tried to bring food home in attempt to please his drunk of a father. He no longer dreamed of his brother rescuing him from the hell he called home. 

Once his father died, festering wounds finally became scars. Daryl worked alone, becoming both a hunter and a loner. He mastered archery and tracking, teaching himself to be strong. Soon, village people sought him out as a guard or a hired arm. Then Parisians came to him for their dirty work. 

Eventually, Daryl was recruited by Joseph, a leader of a small band of mercenary revolutionaries, who had heard from various acquaintance in the criminal underbelly of Paris, what Daryl could do. 

Joe had tracked him down then, offering Daryl an opportunity to hurt the nobles and monarchy with a wide grin: _“Why hurt yourself when you can hurt other people?”_

But the offer had just been a formality. Daryl understood the proposition for what it was, that day Joe surrounded him in the catacombs with his men. If Daryl refused, he would be killed. 

So Daryl joined. What did it matter? Killing one man or the other was what he did, didn’t matter who gave the orders.

It was Joe’s orders that had taken him and Len to the small town of Grenelle. Joe’s orders had sent them on a strange mission, a different sort of mission than Daryl had ever done before.

The editor of the _Révolutions de Paris_ had paid Joe to retrieve the country farmer and editorialist who had painstakingly mailed dozens of gold francs and essays of revolution and of freedom; daily, for the past month. Daryl and Len were both under strict instructions to bring this Monsieur LeGreene back with them, and if this tree-loving farmer didn’t want to come, then Daryl and Len would have to convince him otherwise.

Daryl stared at the letters laying beside him, at the neat and precise handwriting. He realized then his hands had made the letters dirty. The words were still lullabies of comfort though, words of a utopia somewhere in the future, and as he read the essays again, for what felt like the hundredth time, he drifted to sleep. His companion, Len, snored beside him, an open bottle of Brandy threatening to spill as his hand grew more and more lax.

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Marguerite knelled before the executioner, carefully placing her head on the wooden block. They lifted the plaits of red hair from her slender white throat. Her face was proud and cold as she calmly surveyed the peasants who had gathered to watch, and that would be the death of her. 

“Whore!” The crowd laughed and jeered, throwing stones at her as she mock bowed her head.

The woman said nothing when the executioner asked her for her last words. Her Greene pride wouldn’t allow her to. She braced herself against the grainy wood that bit into her collarbones. 

It happened all too suddenly, the blade went careening down with a silent whisper, parting the skin of her neck like butter…

“Maggie!” Beth screamed, sitting straight up in bed, sheets twisted violently around her. 

Beth’s breathing was erratic, near to hyperventilation, and it took a minute to control it, to calm the humming bird pulse of her heart. She quickly took stock of her room, the pretty and serene peacefulness of it, for which she was forever grateful. The small room was empty, empty as it was the night before when she had fallen asleep. Gone were the cheering, blood-thirsty crowds. Gone was the unmerciful guillotine, and the yawning, gaping heads of nobility in the wooden basket before it. Her sister was gone as well. 

Maggie was truly gone.

Shaking her head as if to clear the nightmare, Beth reached for the spare bit of parchment on her dresser. She began writing quickly, relying on the light breaking through the thin lace curtains of the country windows to guide her shaking hand. Her quill was luckily still wet with ink from the night before and words flowed out of her freely, like running water from a spring. 

_For democracy, we must not suffer those who have been raised in privilege. Reason with them, seize their money and property if we must. But do not create more violence. We will create a mindless and never-ending circle. Violence will only make us savage, as cruel as..._

It was no use. 

She laid her quill down again, staring at her words. Too naïve, too sweet. Not the words of the older, wiser man she had claimed herself to be, the same man she missed more than words would ever say. 

Bethany LeGreene’s words would never be printed but Hershel LeGreene’s would. Only her father was dead now and her own name was in disgrace. But Beth was clever and knew that as long as she could use a man’s name and write like a man, she could publish her essays. She could help people. As long as no one found her and realized who she really was.

Her father’s farmhands, Otis and Patricia, watched over her as if she were their own but Beth hated the feeling that she was putting their lives in danger. She couldn’t stay in Grenelle forever. 

Sighing softly, she laid her head back on her pillow, her hair spreading around her like a gold veil. Baroness Bethany LeGreene watched the sun rise on another day and wondered when _they_ would come for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s 1793 in France and Bethany LeGreene, a young noble woman, is hiding in the country with her father’s servants, Otis and Patricia, and using a nom de plume to support the revolutionary cause with both her writing and inheritance. Everything is going fine as it can... until some men come to claim what is hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support, sorry for the delay. 
> 
> Lots more written to this I'm just finding it difficult to let go of the chapters! Need to learn to "Let it Go" ala Frozen style?!... Sorry that was bad! Comments are <3

Len had already gotten kicked out of the first tavern that they had ventured into for insulting a barmaid- a barmaid who ended up being the owner’s daughter. But from what Daryl had learned before Len had grabbed the young barmaid, none of the peasants inside had heard of man named Otis LaGreene. They were still several miles outside of the village where LaGreene’s letters were addressed from, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise. 

Len causing fights yet again was also not a surprise. 

Daryl scowled darkly, watching as Len helped himself to yet another bottle of brandy. Joe had sent several bottles with them in their carriage, and Len was doing his best to lighten the load for Harley and their other horse men. 

“Did you see that petite fille? She looked so ripe. So sweet,” Len said, staring out the carriage window and licking his yellowed teeth. “After we fini with this Monsieur LaGreene, I might just have to return for her.” 

Daryl’s disapproval couldn’t be hid, he felt his body go taut with silent disapproval bottling up in side. 

“The rules of the hunt mean nothing now, not out here,” Len said, grinning widely at Daryl. “Not even Joseph can stop us. We can claim whatever we want.”

“We’re getting this man and we’re going back to Paris with ‘em,” Daryl muttered. “C’est tout.”

Len snickered, beady eyes glittering. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.” 

Daryl said nothing, he didn’t need to. Len was Joe’s problem but to stay in the group’s good graces, he had to tolerate the other man. His patience was wearing thin though, either way. 

If he killed Len though, he would have hell to pay with Joe. And while Daryl knew he could take Joe in a fair fight, Joe attracted the loyalty of his men just as much as their brutality. Joe’s men would enjoy hunting Daryl down like a dog. 

Though they were cut from the same peasant cloth, Daryl never seemed to fit in with Joe and his men. He killed a man when he had to, but never for fun or enjoyment as the others did. 

Because of this, the other men tolerated him, but just barely. 

As tempting as the idea was, in the end, Len’s death would only bring Daryl more misery. 

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Hours later, Daryl and Len arrived at Grenelle in the beginning of the twilight hours. Daniel and Harley navigated through the cobble streets pulled the horses and carriage into the small inn at the center of the town. After paying for their rooms with the money Joe had sent with them, Daryl asked the innkeeper if he knew the name ‘LaGreene.’

Spooked was the best and only way to sum up the country man’s response, like the man had become a deer; frozen at the sound of a cracking branch. 

“Non,” was all Daryl could get the man to say, even after he quickly accepted their rent money into his fat fist. When Len started to get aggressive, Daryl roughly shoved him outside into the warm summer air.

 _Fuck._ This was going to be harder than he had originally thought.

In the fading daylight, they asked several town’s people, all of who seemed to be hiding something. It was hard enough baby sitting Len, Daryl didn’t want to create a situation by pushing any of them for answers. A fight wouldn’t help them in this quiet town, even if it was their normal way.

It was getting darker though and Daryl knew he had to find out something. Otherwise Joe’s men would start to get restless. The men were used to action, to never being told no. He didn’t want to think about what happened if they didn’t reach the end of this hunt.

_Where is this Otis?_

That was when he saw... himself. A mirror image of a ghost reflected back at him, only a few feet away. Daryl couldn’t breathe. 

The dirty and matted hair, the young and defeated frame. He could suddenly taste blood and dirt in his mouth from all those years ago. His back was raw and tender, phantom pain traveling down his spine. He could even hear the jeers. 

Daryl’s heart, withered as it was, sank. 

But no, it was just a boy that looked like him. Not a ghost.

Just a young boy in dirty rags that was staring into the window of a bakery across the cobbled street from Daryl. 

Daryl knew from his hunched-over form that he had lived a rough childhood so far, he recognized the signs of abandonment and cruelty well. The boy was hungrily eying loaves of plain bread and sweet fruit pastries as if just looking at the baked goods would be enough to sustain him for the evening. The boy was probably only 12, maybe 13. 

Daryl knew he was old enough to have seen the town, to know people and where they lived. 

Daryl knew this was their best chance though he disgusted himself even by just thinking it. He moved forward, ready to get this act over with. 

“Hello,” he said to the boy, who looked over at him with open curiosity tinged with suspicion. The boy eyed him silently, taking in his appearance. Daryl wondered if the boy saw a future version of himself. 

“Hungry?” Daryl asked gruffly, shifting on his feet uneasily. “Buy you that bread for information.”

The distrust on the young boy’s face was quickly replaced with hunger, the kind that wouldn’t ask questions. “What do you want to know?”

Daryl decided to ask about the first name this time, since he had been striking out with the name of LaGreene.

“Do you know of a man named Otis?” 

The boy’s brown eyes went wide. “Otis? Otis Cadeaux?”

Daryl’s forehead creased with confusion and he spoke his thoughts out loud without meaning to.

“He’s with LaGreene right? I know him.”

The boy nodded quickly. His eyes kept darting to Daryl’s pockets. 

“Yes, he’s a servant of Hershel LaGreene’s,” the boy said. “He’s gone now. Otis is still at the home. He keeps watch,” he added helpfully.

Daryl shrugged to show nonchalance. _The writer was gone?_ No, there was something strange going on here. Someone was lying, either Hershel or Otis. And one of them, or both of them, were still here in Grenelle. Daryl knew it. 

He paid for the boy's bread and thanked him for his time. 

His mind was racing. Something big was happening in this little town. Here was a mystery that had already gotten under his skin, intriguing him as a tracker, something that hadn't happened in a long time. He knew this was the start of the hunt, the beginning to the end. It seemed like the perfect distraction too.

_I’ve got him._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s 1793 in France and Bethany LeGreene, a young noble woman, is hiding in the country with her father’s servants, Otis and Patrice, and using a nom de plume to support the revolutionary cause with both her writing and inheritance. Everything is going fine as it can... until some men come to claim what is hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any errors or inconsistencies! No beta here. Hopefully this is still enjoyed!

“Ma petite?”

Beth smiled, dark thoughts scattering like country wading birds taking off for winter. She had just finished getting dressed and was wondering if Otis and Patrice would let her help them in the fields today. Her nightmare had made her sleep in later than she intended.

She hated the feeling that even after all of this time Patrice and Otis still treated her as if she were their madam. 

And now Patrice was looking after her again.

In a flurry of frantic motion, Beth left her small room, hurrying down the narrow stairwell to get to the main living space of her father’s old home. 

Patrice was waiting for her in the entry way to the larger greeting rooms. She turned to meet Beth with a sweet smile. The older woman had shopping satchels full of food from the town of Grenelle tucked under one arm--meat wrapped in tidy bundles of paper and twine and bags of apples and pears. They tried to limit their visits into town, to avoid suspicions or anger towards Beth and her title of nobility. Her father had been loved, once upon a time, and at the end, someone envious of him and his happiness had taken his life. The townspeople had done nothing. 

For this reason, Beth didn’t mind remaining a stranger. 

It wasn’t that hard. She kept to herself in their country home, writing her letters and journal entries. The youngest of three children, she was used to being left out of things. Most of her life she had lived in a boarding school. Maggie had been there too, the one bright spot.

_Bright. Bright like a blade, the sun shining on it._

Beth started at the mental image, looking up to stare at Patrice with wide eyes. Patrice stepped forward to grip her small hands. 

Beth saw how they trembled in her friend’s warm grasp. 

“Beth, my dear, how are you?” Patrice asked, taking in Beth’s appearance with a sharp eye. 

Beth shrugged, attempting nonchalance, but knowing Patrice could see the barely-there dark circles under her eyes. Not even Maggie would notice the things about Beth that Patrice did every day.

“I’ve been better,” Beth admitted to her friend. She squeezed Patrice’s hands tightly before pulling away. 

“I dreamed about Maggie again,” she told Patrice softly. 

Patrice watched her calmly, waiting, with no judgement. 

“It was so real. I saw her at the guillotine. As if I was there in the crowds.” 

Beth fiddled with the sleeve of her dress before taking a deep breath, to stop herself from becoming lost in the memories of her dream again. The yells and shouts, the familiar and beautiful defiance on her sister’s face, the silver blade above her dark head...it never ended. 

“I couldn’t save her, I couldn’t do anything.”

Patrice cupped Beth’s small shoulders warmly with her calloused hands. 

Beth looked up to find herself anchored by the love in Patrice’s eyes.

What had she done to deserve her father’s friends looking after her? Truly, someone was looking down upon her and smiling. 

“You’ll be OK Beth,” Patrice told her gently, emotion creeping into her voice. “We all miss Maggie. We can talk about her you know. Anytime you want. It’ll make it easier. You don’t have to hurt alone.”

Beth nodded and swallowed. She didn’t want to talk about Maggie, even knowing Patrice’s good intentions, even though she loved the woman as much as she loved her own mother. The pain of losing her father, and then Maggie, it was still too much. 

Beth bit her lip, trying to find the right words so that Patrice would know that she appreciated everything the other woman did for her. “When you care about people, hurt is kind of part of the package, isn’t it?”

Patrice shook her head quietly in agreement, tears sparkling in her eyes.

Beth’s eyes were dry as Patrice hugged her tightly.

“C’mon, let’s go outside. Otis has your Nelly. Some fresh air will do you good,” Patrice said.

Beth managed a smile. “Let me get my riding boots.”

******

From a safe distance, Daryl and Len watched the older couple with the horse. The chestnut steed was well cared for, fitting in perfectly with the country manor and backdrop of pastoral woods. The old man presented the horse with an apple which was quickly demolished with large teeth and a loud whinny.

Suddenly, another woman came running out of the house, blue skirts flying behind her.

Daryl and Len both tensed at the same moment. Discreetly, Daryl watched Len to make sure he wasn’t about to go down there without his say. The other man was still watching, taking in the new addition was rapt attention.

When Daryl was satisfied that Len was still content to observe, he turned back to the people they had been watching in secret. 

The woman was young. 

Daryl took his time studying her and assessing from his far away vantage point, all the while keeping Len at the corner of his eye. Yes, she was young, maybe 16 or 17. She bounced foot to foot with nervous energy, almost as if she was putting on a play for the older couple. They couldn’t hear what she said but it seemed to amuse the couple.

She had the grace of a dancer. Her blonde hair fell in loose waves down her back and though Daryl couldn’t see her face, he knew she was pretty, beautiful even. There was something about the air she carried herself with, a pureness and confidence that was hard to take his eyes from. 

He felt uneasy, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. They were looking for one person, a poor reclusive farmer, and now they had found a beautiful home with three people inhabiting it.

He wondered if the woman was the daughter of this Otis that the boy he had met had mentioned or even this Hershel they had originally been looking for. And if the older balding man who was helping the young blonde onto the horse was her father, well he looked nothing like it. The other woman had similar hair to the young woman, but she seemed almost... differential to the young woman, not entirely maternal. 

“What a sweet little one,” said Len, taking in the same scene as Daryl. “Real sweet. Even better than that barmaid we saw. She looks like a real little lady, she needs breaking in I suspect.” 

Daryl tried to tune Len out, watching as the young woman hastily shoved blonde curls into her white bonnet before grabbing the reigns of the horse.

She spoke briefly with the older couple and then they were helping her up onto the horse’s saddle. Within seconds, she was lightly pressed her heels into the mare and then she and the horse were off. 

Fascinated, Daryl watched as she sped off into the hillside meadows directly behind the manor and away from the couple, away from Daryl.

The older couple also watched for a moment, before the woman took the man’s hand, guiding him back into the house.

Len started to emerge from the bushes they hid behind, but Daryl grabbed the other man hard. He was getting sick of being tried by him, no matter what Joe’s orders were.

“What the hell you think you’re doing?” Daryl growled.

“I’m going down there,” Len said. “It’s time we go see what this Hershel is made of. It’s probably that fat fuck down there in the house. Sooner we figure him out, and get the old bastard’s money, the sooner we can get acquainted with his daughter.”

Daryl shook his head. “Nah, that’s not what we’re here for.”

Len shrugged. “So? Fuck it. It’s not about what’s right, it’s about getting what’s ours. Didn’t you learn that in Paris?” The other man paused to grin. “Joe is always willing to teach lessons on that, he can teach you all the way, Daryl.” 

Daryl scowled at Len. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the other man by the collar.

“Threaten me again, and I’ll shove one of my arrows so far up your ass...” he growled.

Len’s beady eyes were wide with panic but he was smart enough to know what card to play to get Daryl off his back. “If you show up without me, the boys won’t like it,” he wheezed. “They’ve never liked you. They'll kill you."

Daryl glared at the man, trying to put his anger in check. He knew Len was right. Joe was not a man Daryl wanted to cross. He released his grip on Len abruptly. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get down there. See what we can learn. I'm tired of this shit,” he spat.

Len laughed a little, clearing his throat. Nothing more was said. Another wise self preservation move on Len's part. Daryl was slightly disappointed though he knew how stupid that was. He was spoiling for something and seeing those people, the couple and that young woman who took off on the horse, something about it had unsettled him deeply. He was hopeful that what he and Len needed to do could be accomplished before the girl returned, whoever she was.

He had more important things to think about than a pretty face that would want nothing to do with the likes of him anyway. She would only get in the way of what more than likely would be, more dark deeds. More shame, more fear, more guilt.

Daryl let his mind wander as they neared the house. _In and out. Facile._ After this, he had to start making plans. He knew his time with Joe’s group was running out, one way or another, but he knew the men, and Joe in particular, would not be easy to leave behind. He wouldn't be able to last much longer either way. The ice he was on was thinning every day, Len was proof of that.

Daryl watched Len kick the door of the house in. _Good_ , he thought. _Let's get this over with._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Let me know your thoughts and predictions if you have a chance!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s 1793 in France and Bethany LeGreene, a young noble woman, is hiding in the country with her father’s servants, Otis and Patrice, and using a nom de plume to support the revolutionary cause with both her writing and inheritance. Everything is going fine as it can... until some men come to claim what is hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate that I took so long to update this! I moved recently and I haven’t even seen the last two episodes of Walking Dead yet... not that I’m really motivated to with Beth gone. I am however very motivated to write and read Daryl/Beth! 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for your patience and support and comments! <3

Daryl and Len didn’t bother knocking on the door of the home of the supposed writer they were looking for. 

Len had kicked in the door with practiced ease, but Daryl hung back, eyes immediately tracing shadows he saw in the far corners of the room. The he realized how fine the room was-- the living room had brocaded and stuffed armchairs, the curtain drapes were heavy with lush velvets. Against his will, he was again reminded of Paris, all of the fine homes that had been ransacked once the nobles had run... or had been sent to the national razor. 

“What the fuck?” Len cursed, spittle flying around the room that Daryl had cleared. Somehow his thick skull had registered their surroundings. “I thought this guy was a poor farmer? What is this fancy _merde_?”

Daryl watched as Len grabbed a small, decorative clock from the mantle and threw it to the floor. The glass face shattered. “This is bullshit!” he huffed. “If Joe only knew what this guy was holding back from us while we were shedding our blood! He’s not even one of us!”

Daryl stared hard at the ground, weighing options--none of them good.

He still didn’t know what to do when the bald man rushed into the room with a pistol, one he was raising towards him and Len. Instinct took over. His bones moved into that old familiar stance, the numbing action he had rehearsed since he was a young boy.

Daryl fired, before the man could take a shot.

He released a breath for the brief moment his blue eyes met the shocked brown eyes of the bald man. Then they both looked down at the man’s chest, where blood was spreading into a once clean shirt rapidly. 

It was clean, a heart shot. 

It was like the older man fell backwards in slow motion, and Daryl got that awful feeling again. Something was wrong.

As if from far away, he heard screaming, the older blonde woman they had seen earlier came running into the room from the same hallway the man had. 

In an instant, Len was grabbing her, and he had his hands around her head. With once vicious jerk, he snapped the woman’s neck.

Her body fell, nearly touching the other man who lay bleeding out on the Persian rug.

For a second, no words came. He stood staring, stunned at everything that had happened in seconds. Seconds.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Daryl asked, he could hear a growl in his own voice. “She didn’t even have a goddamn weapon!”

“She was loud,” Len replied blandly, as if complaining about the weather. “Can’t stand ‘em when they’re loud.”

Daryl felt like hitting something. He felt like killing Len. But then what? How long would it be for Joe and his men were on him? Fuck, how would he explain that they killed LaGreene, the man they had been sent to find and bring back to Paris? But it wasn’t the man’s safety or life that had been emphasized by Joe anyway Daryl knew and he admitted it to himself. It was all of the LaGreene mystery money that Len wanted. 

But the money wasn’t mysterious anymore.

Deep down, Daryl knew that once Len told Joe that LaGreene had been a liar, Joe wouldn’t care. A liar like Hershel, a rich man masquerading as poor, “pretending” to help... Daryl stared again at the two corpses on the lush carpet. Help, or whatever it was that this Hershel or Otis, or whoever he was, had been trying to do, for Joe’s “moral code,” for those that had what he did not, that sentence was death.

Daryl shook his head. He was upset that Len had killed the woman, and he was upset that this was the ending to the past few days when he read LaGreene’s letters and actually felt something.

“Let’s just clear these bodies and take whatever’s valuable,” he muttered. “We ain’t gonna hang around here too soon, got it.”

In the end, Len didn’t want to remove the bodies. It was a thinly veiled threat from Daryl that got him working. 

Daryl wasn’t one for sentiment but it seemed wrong to just leave them there in the living room for their daughter to return to. 

Having taken Hershel’s body outside, they were dragging the woman’s limp form when they heard the voice.

“Otis? Patrice?” A woman’s clear voice rang out. “Are you still here? I forgot my journal.”

The young woman with the bonnet rounded the corner of the hallway. 

Big doe eyes stared blankly at the two men she saw, then her gaze wandered down, to the dead woman they carried. 

She gasped, rosebud lips falling open then stumbled backwards as if blind.

It was Len who moved forward first. Daryl saw the knife in his hand, the smirk as he grabbed at the girl’s blue skirt and knew this was a familiar moment for the other man. 

Daryl launched himself forward, knocking the knife quickly out of Len’s hand with the flat of his palm.

Len shoved him but Daryl rounded back. He wasn’t expecting the sharp jab of elbow to his nose. 

It was disorienting enough to send him stumbling and as he righted his stance, he saw the blonde woman hastily retreating.

_Good._

He moved forward towards her, trying to put himself in between her and Len but she reached for him, and before he could grasp her intention, she kneed him hard and swiftly between his legs. He grunted from the force of her blow, pain splintering his vision. Then he was staggering blindly for several precious seconds, his crotch screaming at him. 

The young woman went out of his grasp but somehow Len had begun to maneuver behind her.

Then she only had one way to run, because of Daryl.

She ran up the narrow stairs off the entryway with quick feet, billowing skirts trailing behind her. 

Len gave chase with Daryl at his heels. They fought in the stairwell. Daryl struggling in the narrow, claustrophobic hall. They kept fighting to pass the other but the dark hallway made it impossible for either of them to win. 

At the top, Len threw himself at the closing door the woman was retreating behind. Daryl grabbed at Len and they both fell into the room, still struggling for dominance.

Len elbowed him but Daryl ignored the pain. He tried to tackle Len but missed. Len tried to knee him in the groin but Daryl was better prepared this time, grabbing the other man’s leg and thrusting it aside enough to knock him off balance. 

Daryl threw a punch at Len’s midsection and it landed. Len grunted from the impact but instead of falling back, he lunged forward with renewed determination, his teeth snapping wildly.

Daryl tried to get his hands around his throat, and keep the other man from biting him, when he saw the young woman coming at them both with a white, determined face, something flashing in her hand. A weapon of some sort.

But Daryl couldn’t stop fighting Len to protect himself. He couldn’t find the willpower in himself.

Len screamed as the woman stabbed him in the shoulder with the shiny object. Daryl looked at the other man’s wound and her weapon was still protruding from it-- what looked like a pair of scissors. It was nowhere near a fatal injury but she had stabbed him with force, the blade going muscle deep.

Then she pulled the blade out and went for Daryl.

Her scissors slashed the air in front of his face.

“Wait, stop,” he yelled, jumping backwards. He couldn’t take his eyes from her or from Len, who was rapidly recovering and beginning to rise to his feet.

Before he could warn the woman, Len was jumping at her, wrapping his arms around her tight, in a bear hug. The way he held her kept her arms down by her hips, completely useless. He was squeezing her tightly too, so tight the woman was forced to drop her small weapon.

Len lifted her off from the floor as if she weighed nothing. And judging by her small frame, she probably didn’t. 

Daryl watched, warily. 

“No more fighting, huh?” Len said, sounding out of breath. “I can play nice ma petite, even though you stabbed me.”

Len rubbed his face down the side of the woman’s neck, inhaling her scent. The woman looked terrified and angry as she struggled to pull away from Len but her large blue eyes glared openly at Daryl.

As if sensing her stare, Len stopped momentarily from sniffing at her collarbone to look at Daryl again, suddenly remembering him. 

“And you wanted her all for yourself,” Len accused. “Tried to steal ma petite from me. But I am generous, Daryl. A _better_ man than you. Once I’m done, I’ll even let you have a taste.”

Daryl watched as Len squeezed tight around the woman’s chest again. She struggled anew, a small and frail bird in his arms.

“Yeah, you better,” Daryl said. “You can’t claim her until we find out what we need to know.”

Len’s arms seemed to relax around the woman, now that Daryl hadn’t tried to add a claim or fight back. Len was simple in that way. He was like an animal, about claiming and marking territory and that only.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Daryl said, trying not to look at the woman. He didn’t know why exactly. He didn’t know her well enough to communicate with just his body language and he also didn’t like the way she glared at him, as if he was peasant scum that was completely beneath her. Even if she was right about that.

Daryl turned to leave.

He could hear the sounds of Len struggling to control the woman, her angry and startled yell then the telling squeak of the bed as the other man forced her onto it.

It was then Daryl spun back into the room in a whirl of motion, one hand already extending down to grab the pair of scissors the woman was forced to drop.

He ran at Len’s back the same time the man started to turn from the woman, but his hands were locked with hers and she wasn’t about to let go. His eyes met her startled blue ones as he jammed her scissors into Len’s vulnerable neck as hard as he could.

Len gargled as Daryl twisted the metal with a violent thrust, teeth clenching from the force of it. The scissors were hilt deep, cutting into his jugular. 

He held his hand still and tight around cold metal as Len died, the woman he had been trying to attack still stuck beneath them both. She stared up at Daryl wordlessly as Len twitched under him. He barely felt it. 

Daryl was motionless until Len stopped spasming. Then he grabbed the other man’s lifeless, stinking weight and hefted him off of the small woman trapped below. 

She lay still on the bed for a moment before gingerly lifting herself up to stare at him incredulously. Her skin was snow white from shock, hair and clothes disheveled. She blinked rapidly at Daryl, a small crease appearing on her forehead.

Now that they were face to face and not fighting each other, he really looked at her, he couldn’t help himself. She was definitely nobility, or some noble person’s muse at least. Perhaps she belonged to the writer he had been looking for.

Daryl absorbed the small cherubic wings of her cheekbones, the dainty, girlish chin, and finally the eyes that threatened to swallow him up and spit out only bones. Slowly, color was returning to her face, an angry pink blush as she regarded him right back. 

She was small and innocent looking, but Daryl had seen her fight, knew she could be as ruthless as a wounded alley cat backed into a corner. She had stabbed Len in her desperation, something not even Daryl had done, though he had considered it many times. But he should have done it himself, should’ve killed Len way before this. He knew the man was worse than his old man but he had _tolerated_ him anyway.

He tried to look away from the woman in his shame but his gaze snagged on the red blood that stained her chest. It was smeared across her skin and the lace of her dress. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. His fingers twitched uselessly as she too looked away from him, turning to stare at Len’s dead body. 

She just shook her head. 

He didn’t even know her name. 

He looked at the room they were in, staring at the fine paintings and furnishings, even the windows were adorned with thick and luxurious drapes. Again, he was struck by the resemblance to some of the finer homes he had seen ransacked in Paris. It wasn’t as over the top as the Parisian nobility’s tastes went but it was still a home that made him feel out of place.

By the bed, a polished mahogany night stand held a stack of stationary with writing on it. Something about the writing forced his gaze to focus. His mouth fell open in recognition as the shape of the words tugged at his memory.

He knew that handwriting, neat and pretty, all at once. _Refined._

Not the handwriting of an older man or even a revolutionary.

He tore his eyes away from the words to stare at the woman again, surprise making him bold.

“Who are you?”


End file.
